


Shedding Light

by ribbons



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Cooper
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-02
Updated: 2004-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mailroom of a castle somewhere outside of Time, the senior mail-mage groans upon glimpsing the latest crate from California.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shedding Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mris, after she said, "The Light is a bunch of rotten bastards, and I hope Will turns sixteen, goes rogue, and tracks 'em all down."

In the mailroom of a castle somewhere outside of Time, the senior mail-mage groans upon glimpsing the latest crate from California.

"'Strewth, Stanton's at it again."

The new apprentice peers at it cautiously. "What's wrong with oranges?"

His supervisor sighs. "If it actually contained oranges, we'd simply deliver them to the kitchens and have done with them. No, this is a special delivery for Lord Merlin."

The youngster automatically backs away from the large parcel. "Does Lord M-m-merlin have an aversion to citrus?"

This elicits a short, mirthless laugh from the senior mage. "No, but as far as fouling up his mood, this is reliably worse than a barrel of loaded warestones. If it were oranges we'd at least get gourmet popsicles and sorbet out of it."

The apprentice retreats even further from the package, nearly tripping over another figure crouched on the floor sorting through an trunk of books.

"W-w-worse? Than w-warestones?"

"Oh yes," the senior mage replies grimly. "In fact, one might even call it a peculiarly twenty-first century subset of warestones." He tilts the container so that its contents are visible.

After a long moment, the apprentice blinks. "Am I being stupid, sir? It looks like just some discs and notebooks to me."

 

The senior mage answers with the wearily glib intonation of someone who has had to read aloud the liner notes all too often to too many other assistants: "The discs contain the latest episodes of _The Merry Misadventures of Merlin_, a wildly popular comedy series directed by Barney Drew and produced by Jane White. The binders contain their unedited scripts and sketches, which often include material deemed too raunchy for unrestricted broadcast. The original West End stage production was substantially underwritten by Dr. Simon Drew, a London neurosurgeon."

The apprentice mage manages to squeak out, "_Misadventures_!?"

"Indeed. Some have been known to label the project an extended hatchet job, given how it repeatedly cuts the legends of Camelot down to the average size of a dud popcorn kernel. The reviewers - whose holdings forth are also enclosed - are fond of praising the series' 'hilarious and mercilessly effective approach of nipping countless cases of Arthurian-idolatry in the bud.'"

"As well it should." The book-sorter sits up and brushes his hair away from his face, his tawny-gold eyes gleaming. "And there isn't a thing Lord Merlin can do to prevent the Drews' . . . _reinterpretations_, shall we say, since none of his fancy finger-pointing works this far outside of Time. But he'll sulk anyway. Pay him no mind."

"But -- " the apprentice almost wails, as the senior mage thrusts the parcel at his chest.

"Pay him no mind," the librarian repeats impatiently. "Those who are stingy with trust have no right to demand generous returns, and Lord Merlin brought this upon himself with his arrogant zero-sum nonsense about mortal ways vs. Old ways and never the twain to meet except in dreams, world without end, oh-bla-di, lah-di-da. The king's lion was _wrong_ about the rules - rigidly, ruthlessly, memory-stealing _wrong_ \- and while Will Stanton may be immortal, he would be less than human were he above some harmless gloating at Lord Merlin's expense."

"Be that as it shall," the senior mage responds, "don't you think the Merlin-shaped gummi candies are perhaps taking the joke a trifle far? Especially when milord Merlin himself has no way to reenter Time to address any of it to his liking."

The librarian's grin is genuine, but not without a feral quality to it: "So, that's the latest, eh? Astounding, all the trinkets Will manages to incorporate. Then again, he does have twenty-three nieces and nephews, not including the little Drews and Whites. I'm sure his siblings appreciate his efforts to conjure up entertainment for their darlings, even when he insists 'It's nothing.'"

Bran straightens up, a stack of shale- and cobalt-bound books cradled in his arms. His eyes are still lit with glee, but the edge to his smile is even sharper. "The High Magic is a wild magic, gentlemen, and its laws are both as brittle as old paper and elastic as the stems of daisies. Those who construct and construe the laws as immovable bulwarks are both shielded and oppressed by them - and for all that, as you see, they do not have absolute power over what may enter and what remains without."

And with a swirl of his robes he disappears from the room.

"Go, go, hop to it," the senior mage orders the apprentice, not unkindly. "You're young enough to dodge flying missiles with the best of them, lad. . ."

In a restaurant in San Francisco, Will Stanton studies a cubist painting of a flower arrangement, with jagged, bruise-colored petals. It suggests to him a haphazard pile of books - as if a stack of them had been tossed down from a balcony or other unseen height. The waiter has not yet taken his order: Will is expecting a guest.


End file.
